Letter From the Coast
I.M. W.B.Yeats
Those bodies lushly carved as coins,
Their skin so nearly bronze,
Display themselves in disarray
On cushion and chaise lounge.
Are you continent,
My dear? Are you content?
The sculptor's eye can vivisect
The skin and what's beneath--
Bone and muscle, artery,
The penis from its sheath.
But are you continent,
My dear? Are you content?
I drew a portrait of your hands,
As deft as maids with a bed,
But you were folding back the skin
He wraps around his head.
Are you still continent,
My dear? Are you content?